


avoidance

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Season 1, Sick Character, Sickfic, featuring hard of hearing Tim!, jon has asthma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: From a wonderful prompt I received!“A cold going around the season 1 archival staff and them just actively avoiding Jon because they don't want him to get sick because they know it'll be worst for him with his asthma. What they don't know is Jon's already caught it and is getting the wrong idea and just thinks he's being avoided because they don't want to catch it from him.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 33
Kudos: 220





	avoidance

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoy this quick little sickfic!

“Oh, there he comes, Sash.”

“How does he look?” she replies, being sure to speak louder while Tim has his face turned away.

“Can’t tell yet.”

Tim cranes his neck and squints to better catch a glimpse of Martin, who walks toward their office from the lift, bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather in a knit scarf and hat.

“God, I need to get new prescriptions,” he says, rubbing his eyes against the blurriness. “He’s got a hat and scarf on, though.”

“Ooh, things are looking promising!”

Turning back to her, jaw hanging open in mock-indigence, Tim places a shocked hand against his chest.

“Miss _James,_ I’m horrified! You would wish illness on our poor poet, Martin Blackwood, Esquire?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says, sniffling a bit as she punches lightly at his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” Martin croaks as he steps in—though it must sound rather congested, judging by Sasha’s satisfied smirk, and she holds out her outstretched palm to him.

“Morning, Martin,” Tim replies at once, not willing to hand over his fiver just yet. “How are you today? Just peachy, I’ll bet?”

Throwing him a glare from where he’s sat down at his desk, Martin’s face suddenly goes hazy, his eyes unfocused as he pulls his scarf quickly over his nose—before sneezing thrice, harsh and miserable, breaking off into painful coughs to finish.

“Aw, Martin, I’m sorry,” Sasha coos in sympathy, patting his back with one hand while reaching out to accept Tim’s begrudging fiver with the other.

“Don’t you apologize, Sasha,” Martin croaks after he recovers himself, rubbing a tissue against his dreadfully pink nose. “We all know this is Tim’s fault.”

“ _Excuse_ me???” Tim bursts, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of disbelief.

“Shut it, you know it’s true,” Sasha concurs, unwrapping a spare tissue box to donate to Martin’s desk. “You’re the one who _fraternized_ with Research, knowing they’ve had this bug going around for weeks.”

“ _Why_ are you both attacking me?” Tim shouts, breaking off to cough for a moment, his own illness not yet entirely abated. “This is homophobic.”

“Not if we’re all queer, you arse!”

He returns to clutching at his chest, taking a dramatic inhale.

“Martin, she’s slinging me with the cruelest of insults! Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?”

“Basically, yeah,” Martin replies, voice whittled down to a hoarse whisper—he makes sure to speak slowly, such that Tim can read his lips. “Because she’s right, and you deserve it.”

“I’ll have you know, _sir—“_

Tim’s scolding is interrupted by the opening of the heavy door to document storage, from which Jon emerges—looking unkempt as ever, carrying a stack of files tucked beneath his left arm. Nodding briefly at them in greeting, he hastens across the room to his office, and Tim just barely manages a glimpse of him pulling his inhaler out of his pocket before the door shuts. 

“Is he coughing?” Tim asks, turning to gauge their reactions.

“Yeah. God, he sounds absolutely horrendous,” Martin croaks, wincing at the dreadful wheezing coughs, ineffectively muffled behind the door.

“It’s his own fault,” Tim mutters, earning him _looks_ from both Martin and Sasha. “What? He could ask one of us to root through the dusty shelves for him, you know, _like a normal boss._ But he won’t, because he’s too damn stubborn.”

Knowing he’s at least a little bit right, Sasha and Martin say nothing, only continuing to listen with concern as Jon pulls twice from his inhaler, before finally seeming to get his breath back.

“We should all try to keep our distance from him,” Martin says at last, giving them both a significant look. “I don’t want him to get this—not when he’s coughing like that. Don’t want to put him at risk.”

Grin dropping from his face, Tim nods solemnly back at Martin, and Sasha follows suit.

“You’re right, mate. We’ll do our best.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin replies, flashing them a sunny, if not stuffed-up, smile. “Right then, anything specific to work on today?”

—

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Jon slams the pause button on the tape recorder, snatching up a tissue as fast as he can—near-silently stifling two into it. It makes his head pound every time, tears at his already-battered throat, but he’d rather not spread whatever miserable illness he’s managed to catch all around the office.

Though it seems that they’d all been avoiding him well enough as it is.

He’s not a fool—he knows he’s got a fever, knows that he’s contagious and really ought to be avoided—but when Martin had neglected to bring him his afternoon tea that day, well…he was more than happy to blame the lump in his throat on the fever. For all he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he ought to take care of himself, it does nothing to settle the ache in his chest. The one that his inhaler can no longer take the edge off.

Sighing in frustration, Jon does his best to turn his focus back to his work—rising unsteadily to his feet to search for the next file.

_What was the number again?_

_God, I’m dizzy._

He stretches out a hand to brace himself against the filing cabinet, blinking away the stars sparkling across his vision as he adjusts to standing.

_Right. 01319…0…8? 9?_

_Wait, did I—did I finish the last statement?_

He muffles a cough into his elbow, bracing even heavier on the cabinet.

_Doesn’t matter, I’ll just get this one anyway._

_Won’t need to get up again, at least._

“Looking for something, boss?”

Tim calls from his office door, which he’s propped open—perhaps in the subconscious effort to tempt Martin into bringing him tea. 

_Pathetic._

“Jon? You alright?”

“Oh—err, of course,” he says at once, lifting his head toward him. “Can I help you?”

“I was the one asking,” Tim chuckles, stepping forward into his office—before immediately retreating again.

_Oh._

“Sorry, I would help you, it’s just—you know, with this cold going around, better not.”

“R-right.”

Jon buries his hurt as quickly as possible, refusing to let it show on his face.

“Right, of course. Then, err, just—carry on then, I suppose, Tim.”

Turning back to the cabinets, Jon tries to leave the conversation there, feeling his chest beginning to tighten with every passing moment. He doesn’t want to get Tim ill, not when they’re all so clearly worried about catching it—

“Jon? You’re—you look shaky, are you alright?”

_Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough_

“Fine,” he croaks, even as he brings a hand up to press against his fluttering chest.

“What was that?” Tim asks, stepping just a bit closer, tilting his head to better read Jon’s lips.

_Don’t don’t don’t_

He can’t hold it back anymore.

At once, Jon doubles over with coughing, shallow wheezing accented by the rumbling of congestion deep within his lungs—all of it nearly sending him to the ground with the force of it.

“Jesus, Jon—just sit down, alright? Christ,” Tim urges, at last entering the room to grab him by the shoulders, lowering him to sitting with his back against the filing cabinet.

Every thought of hiding or sparing Tim from contagion flies from his head, replaced only with the gasping need for air, his body screaming at him to _breathe—_

“What’s going on?” Martin asks from the door, scanning across the scene quickly, alarm rising at once.

“Get his inhaler,” Tim orders, tipping Jon’s head forward between his knees.

“Oh god. Right—right, h-here, I’ve got it—Jon?”

He taps gently on Jon’s upper arm as he crouches.

“I’ve got it here, can you look up?”

It takes every shred of focus he has left to his power, but he does—reaching out to cover Martin’s hands with his own as he guides the inhaler to his lips, pressing down on the button and drawing as deeply as he can from it.

“Good, good, that’s—that’s good, Jon,” Martin stammers, still holding the inhaler within his reach.

“Take another,” Tim demands, voice leaving no room for argument. “When you can.”

After a few more labored breaths, Jon complies—chest expanding a little more now, though he can still feel the crackling wetness at the edges of it.

“Here, Jon, I’ve got you some water,” Sasha says as she enters the room, undoubtedly having heard the commotion from outside. “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Jon rasps, seeing Martin’s hands in his periphery, reaching up to sign for Tim’s understanding.

“I know—we didn’t want to get you ill, Jon, but—“ Tim cuts off momentarily, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I mean, it sort of seemed like you needed help, right?”

_Wait._

“You didn’t…you didn’t want…to get _me_ ill?” Jon asks through panting breaths, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head.

“Well, no, we—“ Martin suddenly breaks off, scooting a little ways back from Jon as he realizes their proximity. “Of course we didn’t want you to get ill, your asthma’s been so terrible the past few days.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing as he glances between the three of them.

“I...I don’t—“

_Oh._

**_Oh._ **

“You didn’t…know I was ill?” he asks, and Tim’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, turning back to share a glance with both Sasha and Martin.

“Oh _no_ , Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin laments at last, sniffling a bit into his sleeve. “We didn’t—we thought that, well…we thought we were protecting you from getting it.”

The relief Jon feels at this is astonishing—certainly inordinate for the situation, but…he finds he does not care much altogether. Even if just a bit, the knot in his chest seems to loosen—his breathing made easier just for a moment.

“Woah—you alright?” Tim asks with renewed concern, the cause uncertain to him, before—

He feels a tear beginning to slip down his face.

“Oh,” he says, hurriedly scrubbing it away. “ _Oh_ , I—I’m sorry, I—I-I’m fine, it’s alright, I don’t know why—“

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sasha says from above him, leaning down to press a warm hand on his shoulder. “Look, if you feel like you can stand, I’ll drive you home, okay? You need to rest. I’m serious.”

The look she gives him now, that they all give him—it’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face, his mouth barely quirking up at one corner. 

“Y-yes, I—thank you, Sasha,” he says, allowing Tim and Martin to lift him slowly to his feet, leaning against them momentarily as he sways just a bit.

“You’re calling your doctor on the way,” Sasha continues, leading them out of his office and toward the lift. “I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

“R-right,” he pants against the exertion of their slow-paced walking. “I—thank you. I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it Jon,” Martin says softly as they bundle him into the lift. “Just get well, okay?”

Something warm and lovely floods through Jon’s chest at this, and he cannot help but nod—a half-smile flickering across his face as the lift doors close.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! come find me on tumblr @celosiaa, if you like. have a great day out there! <3
> 
> -love, connor


End file.
